


The Girl on the Cliff

by Inkstained_Dreamer



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen, Silmarils, Sirion, Suicide (essentially), Third Kinslaying (Tolkien), don't get me wrong Maedhros and Maglor are my lovely boys but they are being seriously manipulative, sympathetic Elwing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-07
Updated: 2020-12-07
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:21:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27943688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Inkstained_Dreamer/pseuds/Inkstained_Dreamer
Summary: There is a girl standing on the cliffs above Sirion. She is holding what everyone wants. And the world is burning around her.(Or, for those of you who like straightforward authors, a small story about Elwing during the Third Kinslaying.)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 24





	The Girl on the Cliff

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this to try and help with some of (the dread) writers' block. Hope you enjoy! :)

There is a girl standing on the edge of a cliff, two hundred feet above the tossing sea. Her dark hair blows in the wind like a curtain. Her white dress swirls about her legs, billowing, and an ethereal, glistening light shines from her neck. The sky is full of purple-blue storm clouds, blowing in from across the sea. Thunder rumbles in the distance, softly, but getting louder. 

It is a beautiful picture, the stuff of paintings or ballads. That is, until you look below the white-clad woman, down to the base of the craggy cliffs. Because below the precipice, there is a war. 

But calling it a war is a bit misleading. A war implies massed armies, shining spears, a gallant charge across a green field. This is not that. This is a slaughter. 

The girl on the cliff can smell the flames beneath her, consuming the home the remnants of her people, of many peoples, had built. She can dimly hear the shrill, panicked screams of those she had sworn to protect. Her eyes are very good--she can see the bodies floating facedown in the water, their blood spreading like a crimson stain. She is shaking. Her nails dig into her arms. Her children are down there, locked in the nursery, the door barricaded with as many chairs as she could drag. She tries to reach out to them, groping through the glimmering strands of thought, and she feels a faint thrum of terror, and a blue pulsing of confusion. She exhales. Good. They are still alive. She has succeeded so far.

She reaches up and touches the jewel at her throat. It is warm on her cold fingers, vibrating against her skin like a second heart. She unclasps the necklace and stares into its serene, swirling depths. She can see her reflection, distorted almost beyond recognition. Her eyes are pools of darkness, bruised with sleeplessness. There is a trickle of blood coming from her nose. She hadn’t noticed.

She breathes and lets the surface of the Silmaril fog, then wipes it away. She wonders if her parents are watching her, wailing her name in the crying of the wind. If her grandparents are regarding her, waiting for what she will do with their legacy. The gem quivers. The colors within swirl. She stares at it. Why did her parents die for this? They never had a chance to tell her. She doesn’t know. She wishes she could ask them if it was worth it. If what she is about to do is the right choice.

But she cannot ask. She is on her own. 

So she decides. Because she must. 

She takes a deep breath, filling her lungs with the salty, scorched air, and then she screams. Not words, just pure sound, rippling through the air around her. She holds the Silmaril up above her head, letting its full brightness explode in blinding, brilliant rays. They will see this. She knows they will see it. And they will come. 

She plants her feet and waits for them, her back to the sea. The wind makes her bare arms prickle. A rock digs into her foot. She does not move.

She hears the jingle of harness and the clatter of armor before she sees them. Some memory, a fragment of babyhood, rises before her eyes, of a similar metallic rattle, of the smell of burning pine. She shakes it off and raises her head, high and proud like the pictures of her father. They come over the rise, their horses coming to a stop, their hair blowing in the wind.

There are only the two Fëanorians. She had expected more. Had hoped for more. If there are only the brothers, then all the rest of their ragtag forces are still seething and killing in Sirion, far below her. In Sirion, where her children are waiting. In Sirion, that soon would be gone. She bites her lip and clenches her hands around the Silmaril. If she can hold the commanders up here for long enough, maybe the soldiers will grow tired of aimless murder. 

One of them, Maglor, black-haired and pale, slowly gets down from his horse. He takes a step towards her. His sword, sheathed at his side, swings. 

The girl does not move. 

“Elwing,” he says, his voice gentle, soft. 

She does not look at him. 

“Elwing,” he says again. “Elwing, please. It’s ours.”

She raises her eyes, clutching the Silmaril for courage. “No. It stopped being yours the minute your sword slashed through a Teleri’s throat.”

He sighs, a weary, melancholy sound, like the wind moaning in winter. “I. . .I didn’t want it to happen this way.”

Anger sparks to life in her chest. “No one forced you to kill my family, to destroy my home twice over now. It was your own choice. Don’t speak to me of how you wanted it to turn out.”

Maedhros, scarred and serious, comes to stand beside his brother. His eyes are fathomless pools of grey, and Elwing thinks that maybe she will drown in them. Drown in the miasma of guilt, longing, and sorrow that roils beneath his skin. 

“Elwing,” he says, and his voice is soft too. “I looked for your brothers. I searched everywhere for them. I am so sorry.”

She stares into his face. This was something she wasn’t expecting. She had been waiting for monsters, but all she sees are two broken people, two tired brothers who want to go home. 

Maedhros licks his lips and continues speaking. “Elwing, you have every reason not to give us the Silmaril. I know that.” He steps forward, holding her gaze. “But you can stop the violence,” he whispers. “Give us the jewel and we will leave this place, forever. We’ll leave you and your family in peace.” He takes another step forward, the gravel crunching beneath his boots. Maglor steps forward too, and speaks again, in his lilting, rich voice.

“It would be so easy, Elwing. Nobody else needs to die. Just give us the jewel and we will leave, I promise. Please, Elwing. We don’t want to hurt you.”

Elwing closes her eyes. She can feel the jewel quivering between her hands. She can hear the hot blood rushing through her, pushed by her wildly pounding heart. It would be easy. She knows that. As easy as putting out a hand and letting go. 

But she also knows that her parents died for this. Her grandparents risked everything for this. If anyone has a claim to the Silmaril, it is her, child of three kindreds. 

She breathes. In. Out. In again.

Maybe they are lying. She’ll give it to them and they will destroy everything, because they are still monsters, even if they have sad eyes. But if she puts it beyond their reach then. . .they won’t have any reason to stay in Sirion. They will leave and her children will live.

Unless they’re dead already. She chooses not to think of that.

She breathes. Out again. In. Out. She opens her eyes and stares at the two men before her, their tunics faded and torn, their hair blowing in the wind, damp with sea spray and sweat. There is a gnawing hunger in their faces, old and suffused with regret and pain. 

They look immensely old. And she looks very young, as she stands there, her dress waving in the wind, face pale, hands trembling, both nostrils trickling blood now. Young and frightened and desperately brave. That’s what Maglor will remember of the slip of a girl who stood above a raging sea and held pure light in her hands.

She shakes her head one time, silently, and then steps backward, feeling the edge of the cliff crumble beneath her bare foot. Maedhros gasps. She doesn’t know if it’s for her or the gem. She does not care.

She takes another step back. Maglor reaches out a hand, his eyes wide, frozen in horror.

Elwing tightens her lips and jumps into empty air. 

Later, in Rivendell, there would be a beautiful painting of a bird, soaring against storm clouds, a jewel glowing brilliantly on its chest, casting geometric beams of light over the sea. The bird will be graceful, winging its way through the air as if it had been born to soar.

When someone falls from a cliff, it is not graceful or beautiful. Elwing tumbles over and over, her arms flailing wildly, screams torn from her lips. She slams against the rockface and hears something crack. Pain shoots through her. Her hair clumps in her mouth, stifling her wail. Tears are ripped from her eyes.

The hungry sea is getting closer, opening its mouth to engulf her. She clutches the Silmaril. Was this what her parents thought as swords punctured their hearts? She wonders what it will feel like to die. Time seems to slow down around her. 

_ Eärendil.  _ She thought of him, waving goodbye to her from his white ship, his golden hair shining, his face aglow, and called his name in her mind.

_ Elros. Elrond. _ She remembered their tiny hands, how they had brought her shells from the beach, gap-toothed smiles on their faces, and screamed for them silently. 

The water is waiting. She can feel the spray gusting up. Thunder rumbles, closer now. She squeezes her eyes shut, searching with spectral hands for her children on the shore, for her husband on the sea. 

But she is alone. And the water is hungry. 

How long until she hits? A minute? Ten seconds? 

Nine.

_ Nana, help me. _

Eight.

_ Ada, catch me. _

Seven.

_ Varda, please. _

Six.

_ Ulmo, are you there?  _

Five.

_ Manwë, can you hear me? _

Four.

_ Mandos, I’m not ready. _

Three.

_ Grandmother, I need your strength. _

Two.

_ Someone, keep my children safe. _

One. 

The Valar are many things. Fierce, loving, blind, gentle. But most of all, they are thrifty. And they are cunning. They like to act as if only their fallen brother had gotten that particular flair. Don’t be fooled. They play their games and pull their cosmic strings just as he does. Maybe it’s cruel. Perhaps it’s a gift. Maybe even both.

Elwing rises, pulled by the threads of fate. Skin turns to feathers, lips and nose to beak, arms stretch into wings. An updraft lifts her. She hangs there for a moment, a white shape against the clouds.

And she is gone. 

  
  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> I've wanted to write this fic for so long!! *squeals*  
> I've always found Elwing really interesting. So many people (me included at first) cast her as simply a selfish person who cared more about the Silmaril than her children. But when I really thought about her story, that didn't fit. Elwing is a deeply traumatized young person who has had to grow up incredibly quickly and deal with a lot of adult responsibilities. She's barely out of childhood and she already has two children, an entire city to govern, and a husband who just isn't there enough for her. She's the only one of her kind, so chances are her body is different than other elves'. Everyone has high expectations for her--after all, she's Lúthien's granddaughter, she must be special, right?  
> Considered in that light, many of her actions are understandable, at least to me. Elwing still has the brain of an adolescent, and she has a crushing amount of pressure on her. She thinks that maybe she can save her children if she gets as far from them as she can, and then the literal stuff of her nightmares shows up in the form of the Fëanorians! She knows she can't just hand the Silmaril over, it would dishonor her family and disappoint everyone around her. But she can't fight these two ruthless warriors. So she does the only thing she can do: jump. Bear in mind, when she makes her choice, she doesn't know she's going to turn into a bird. She thinks she's going to die. She chooses to commit suicide rather than hurt the people she cares about.  
> Yes, yes, I know, her actions are still problematic, but I still go around screaming "SHE WAS A BABY!!!!!" at anyone who will listen.  
> Thanks for reading this!


End file.
